Hollowed

-3-

   Soviet almost dropped his mug. 

   Amerika would never let any strangers onto his property, let alone at night! How the hell did he get onto the property?

   "What is it, Soviet?" America turned to face him, closing the photo album.

   "Nothing. I'm fine." He returned to his tea, dwelling on the possibilities of the stranger managing to get onto the  America's property. All the other countries know by now that there are more guns than people in the entire country, and intruders aren't exactly given a warm welcome. Hell, the Japanese Empire didn't want to invade the mainland because of that fact alone. 

   Soviet's attention snapped back to reality when he heard the distinctive clkshing! of a pocket knife flipping open. America was focused on something outside, and his pocket knife was in a very tensed hand, so tense that his knuckles were turning white. 

   "Amerika? What is it?" Soviet waited patiently for his friend's response, but none came. All he could hear was the soft patter of rain on the roof and the stainless steel prosthesis in place of the other's man's right leg squeaking. Soviet's calm expression turned to tense worry after America had seemed to freeze in place, like a tiger lying in wait for the perfect moment to catch prey unawares. Soviet didn't want to move- America is extremely deadly when he's serious. 

   He watched the western country carefully as he opened the door and peered outside, wary of every raindrop and falling leaf. The pocketknife's blade glinted in the dull, desaturated light from outside, as if a raindrop was clinging to it. America looked back at Soviet- more like past him- and motioned the nonverbal command to move forward.

  "Amerika, you're going to get pneum-"

  The other country kept walking into the rain, as if it wasn't even there. Droplets spattered his army-green t-shirt and soaked his hair. His Timberland boots left imprints in the mud that quickly filled with dirty water. Soviet stood in the open doorway, contemplating whether to leave the warmth of the house or not. He stepped outside and the wind buffeted his ushanka, forcing him to blink. 

  "Amerika, you can't be out here for very long! Amerika!" Soviet called for him, but it seemed as though the western country had simply disappeared into the waves of rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance as Soviet called for America, but no answer. 

  It took Soviet about four full minutes to finally find America, who was sitting under a tree with his knees pulled up to his chest. He had his head down, so Soviet figured that he might not answer. 

  "Amerika? Are you alright?"

  Silence.

 "Do you do this very often?"

  Nothing. 

  "Do you wanna go back inside?"

  Soviet reached his arm out to put his hand on America's shoulder, but he shrunk away.

   "You can't stay out here, you'll get pneumonia."

    "I don't care."

    The response was brisk, and the words echoed in Soviet's head. 

    "Why don't you care?"

     Another bout of silence. He opted for silence when a topic was uncomfortable or when the answer was obvious. His response had  been clear enough. He didn't care if he got pneumonia and died. Well, I care. He's too vital to the world economy and general wellbeing of his allies, Israel would be devastated. 

   Soviet pondered carrying him back into the house himself, but he wasn't too sure that he'd be able to get two inches without getting his shit run. 

   Soviet was willing to try, though.

   Surprisingly, America didn't object to being picked up and carried to the house. He didn't mind when Soviet dried him off with a towel or fixed him another cup of tea. He just stared blankly, his gaze unfocused and unblinking. He stayed this way for about 45 minutes until he turned his head to acknowledge Soviet. 


   "Soviet.."

   "Yes, comrade?"

    "Just know that whatever happens, it isn't your fault."